


Decide

by Oft



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Other, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oft/pseuds/Oft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clu/you, after the games. This was written long ago for the LJ Tron kinkmeme. There's even a couple illos for it (will post them when I find them).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decide

That finger, one small infuriatingly ticklish stroke along the neckline, is all he's doing right now. The rest of his hand is raised parallel to your body, centimetres away, but only that one finger makes contact. He's mumbling somthing pointedly important about you being lucky to survive that run on the gamegrid, that you should have been liquified against the walls or other biketrails like your teammates, yet you survived this game. Amazing, he says. 

Amazing, nothing. Only sheer dumb luck and quick reactions saved your ass. And now- that finger has led it's way acoss your shoulder, over first one collarbone, then the dip where the suit dipped down to expose skin, then across the other collarbone. His amused smirk, the scruffy jawline cut short by his high coat collar is all you see ahead of you as you keep your eyes (breathing) level, not daring to look up just yet. The bright gold strip on his arm blinds you in the dark room, and his finger keeps moving. It's now circling the curve of your shoulder, travelling down the edge of the circuit that leads from shoulder to the inside of your elbow.

He chortles a little as you hiss at the spark of touch on it. 

You don't see him, but you feel his presence close in as he whispers.  
"You'd make a fine guard, if you wished. No more running, no more waiting for deresolution. Just play the game." He smells like ozone- not the sharp cold snap during winter, but like that of a thunderstorm during a muggy summer night. It's not unwelcome, but it's opressive. Like the ruler of the grid. That finger digs in momentarily, becoming a sharp snap of pain. 

"Answer me."

Your jaw clenches a little, trying to decide on an answer that won't be wrong. His finger moves again, down to your wrist, over the back of your hand and up along the circuit on the backside of your arm, wringing a shaky intake of air at the small pleasure from you. 

"Maybe I should make the offer a little more enticing." His finger disappears, and you feel a small tug and click as he removes your disk. You swing your head about to look . . . 

"Nuh-Uh, no looking." And his hand is cradling your cheek, moving your head back into place. It doesn't leave; his thumb begins to stroke along the cheekbone and back to the earlobe, forefingers digging in gently under your chin. There's a slight shuffle and tap noise behind you, then it recedes, and his other hand is covering the strip on your other arm, sliding down, brushing both circuits at once. He leaves the feeling of immensity right behind you, like he's blocking everything from view.

Slowly, the hand cradling your head, draws it back, leaning your head against his chest, his fingers sliding down across the exposed flesh of your throat. You can't help but swallow a little as one finger digs into the hollow of your neck, followed by a slight rush of cool air where suit should be. The other hand has moved down and pulled your wrist behind you, not uncomfortably, but enough to set your arm between you and he while he brings his arm forward to gently touch the hipnode there. Involuntarily, your eyes have fluttered shut as the rising sensation begins to travel from the node along the line of circuitry up your chest, brightening a little as it goes. His breathing is right against your ear, stubble scraping skin as he leans down and puts mouth against your shoulder. Bare flesh instead of suit meets his lips, and a slight rumbles travels from him, reverberating through you.

You clench your trapped hand against his leg in response, letting out another throttled sigh. The rumble cuts into parts and you feel him grin against your skin as he laughs. 

"I take that as a yes?"

" . . . " you still won't respond, but the offer DOES become better by the moment.

"Still not good enough, then?" The hand around your throat tightens ever so slightly, covering the entirety of your neck between jaw and clavicle, providing just enough pressure as a warning. Stiffening up is your only response. 

He continues that eerie chuckle.

His other hand continues its trail up, fingertips pressing against the circuit in small taps occasionally, sending sharp spikes of intensity into your system, forcing you to flinch in pain (pleasure?) at every shift in pressure. Eventually his entire hand covers the largest portion of the circuit high upon your chest, then he curls his finger, driving his own circuit against it. A sharp moan escapes from you, unbidden, as the sensation makes you reel, traveling in shooting flame down your arms, your legs, to your core. Your body drops back against him, and he releases your throat to turn your head towards him. His smile looms over you as you gaze on him from under lowered lids, mouth open like an invitation that he takes, covering it, sending his tongue across to initiate contact with your own, teasing, sucking, almost breathing for you. His stubble digs almost uncomfortably against your chin, but you can't escape from it.

He drags his circuit down, down again, past the node, along your thigh. You cry into his mouth at it; the other programs in the room must surely think you're in agony from it, but nothing is farther from the truth. You press back against him in response, your trapped hand finally digging fingers into his thigh and his own circuit, and your free hand shooting up and over your shoulder to grasp at his.

His mouth pulls away from you and you groan in dismayed response. His hands release you, and he steps back.

That grin. That maddening grin.

"Do you have an answer now?"

Your breath is shaky, you're certain your gaze is a mix of anger and wild lust.

'If I give you the wrong one?"

"You've got only a simple choice to make: black guard or . . . . deresolution. Game champion or . . . deresolution. I could list many things you could choose. I suppose right now, the most pertinent question is . . . . " He pauses to circle you, making a pointed wide berth on his way to the throne seat, his pace slow and measured before he seats himself in it and throws one leg over an arm, his coat spilling aside to the floor.

"Me . . . or deresolution."

Your circuits are pulsing madly; flashes of violet blatantly and grossly obvious. You feel as if the eyes of every program are on you awaiting your answer, and it only makes the sensation more intense. You must be mad to even consider how much you would gladly sit astride him, consequences be damned. Even in front of all the others in the room.


End file.
